Nothing Wrong
by Theophila
Summary: And, you know, I started wishing... I just wished for Aslan’s country. I wished so hard it almost hurt. But it was a good pain, not a bad one, you know?" At 17 years old, Edmund is lying on his deathbed. What does he have to say to his brother?


Author's Note/Disclaimer: Narnia belongs to C. S. Lewis. The first and last italicized quotes are from a song entitled "Rescue Is Coming (B Walk Down the Stairs)" by the David Crowder Band, and if you ever get the chance I highly suggest that you listen to it... it's one of my very favorite songs. There's a David Crowder quote hidden in the story, too. See if you can spot it, and if you do, mention it in a review so that you can receive the prize of imaginary ice cream and the feeling of satisfaction. The second italicized quote is from _Till We Have Faces_, which also belongs to C. S Lewis, and is a really incredible, deep, thought-provoking book. Now that the disclaimer part is out of the way... I think this is the longest one-shot I've written yet, which makes me happy. But I'm afraid it turned out rather more rambly than I had hoped, and flangstier, too, which does not make me happy at all. (Flangst: too fluffy to be truly angst, too angsty to be complete fluff. Thanks for the new word, Eruvyweth.) I do like to try to get better, though, so if you have any specific thoughts on what could be improved, I'd love it if you let me know! Thanks!

**Nothing Wrong**

_There's nothing wrong with me. It's just that I believe things could get better. And there's nothing wrong with love. I think it's just enough to believe._

The strong, youthful face was pale upon the pillow. The brown eyes and hair looked darker than usual against the contrasting skin, as did the freckles. Edmund Pevensie, the Just King of Narnia, was 17 years old, and, not for the first time in his life, he was dying.

His was not the only pale face in the village. From Badgers to Beavers, Dwarfs to Giants, Centaurs to Satyrs, there was not a single Narnian present that was not in great distress. But arguably, the palest face of wall was that of King Peter, who never could stand to see a sibling hurt, much less mortally wounded. And though his brother was not dead yet, it was generally felt that it was only a matter of time, and not much time at that.

It had all come very suddenly and very unexpectedly. The kings and queens had been on a tour of the land, as was their annual custom. They found it very pleasant to visit and meet with their subjects wherever they happened to be, and doubtless most of their subjects found it very pleasant as well. In general, the loyalty and love of the Narnians towards their monarchs was only rivaled by the deep reverence and love they held towards Aslan, the Greatest King.

It is a difficult thing to be a judge. As a judge, one is likely to win the adoration of those who feel that they have received justice. But one is certain to also gain the enmity and hatred of some who feel that they have been wrongfully judged. King Edmund, in addition to being king, was also the head of Narnia's legal system. With his natural wit and Aslan-given wisdom, he took to the role as if he was born for it. (And he was, in fact, born for it.) It is no surprise that within a year, the citizens of Narnia had begun to refer to him as King Edmund the Just. Nonetheless, though Edmund strove to temper justice with the same mercy he himself had been shown, there were always a few dissatisfied grumblers who complained that the Traitor had no right to judge them. This slander was a terrible matter, but such things cannot always be helped, and Edmund himself made a point of ignoring it.

However, when slander turns to malicious plotting and malicious plotting turns to violence, it can no longer be ignored, no matter how much one wishes that it could be. One well-aimed arrow was all it took. The four siblings were making their way through the crowd on horseback, smiling and blessing the welcoming villagers. It was a glorious morning, and everyone felt, as Lucy put it, that "you could hardly be any happier, even if suddenly all your dearest wishes came true at that moment".

Edmund was twisted a bit in the saddle, looking behind to laugh at a joke Susan had just made, his head tilted back, his smile wide and glad, his face bright with joy. Susan beamed back, pleased to have made him laugh, but then her delighted facial expression turned instantly to one of horror as she saw her brother jerk back, lose his balance, and, after a long, teetering moment, fall to the ground.

The chaos that had been joyful moments before now became a nightmarish pandemonium. Within a moment, each sibling was on the ground, trying to help Edmund in any way possible. Peter, with the 

assistance of members of the Royal Guard, sternly instructed the crowd to clear a space, get back, give the poor chap some breathing room for goodness sake. Susan and Lucy rushed to kneel down by Edmund's side and see what the matter was. The problem was immediately apparent. An arrow with bright red fletching was embedded in his right shoulder. A message was tied to the end of the arrow. In venomous, dripping script, it read, "Death to Traitors and Unjust Judges". (Some Narnian soldiers and other loyal townspeople, upon reading this message, snarled and shouted in anger and at once set off into the woods in search of whatever foul beast had dared insult their king. But the villain was never found. That is not, however, what this story is about, and besides, we know that unless the would-be assassin repented, Aslan has given him his just reward.)

Somehow, despite all of the confusion and distress, they managed to bustle Edmund off into a little cottage where he could receive proper medical care. Though extremely upset, no one was too worried for Edmund's recovery. True, he had taken a nasty fall onto cobblestones, and true, an arrow in the chest was never a nice thing to deal with. But their king was very brave in battle, even to the point of self-sacrifice, and so he had received worse wounds in the past and then recovered. Unfortunately, it was soon realized that the words of the attached message were not the only things dripping in venom. The arrowhead had been dipped in a deadly poison that was quickly proving too potent for Edmund's slight, 17-year-old body to handle. Edmund, who for the most part was maintaining consciousness throughout the whole ordeal, began to complain of a tingling sensation around the wound. A few minutes later, he added that the tingling was spreading, and the wound was beginning to feel numb. By the time they had finished cleaning and bandaging the wound, the Doctor treating him had noticed that Edmund's pulse had slowed considerably, and Edmund could not feel his rightarm at all. After asking a few more questions about how Edmund felt, the Doctor became very grave. He explained that it was his deep suspicion that the arrow had been poisoned with wolfsbane. (You might like to know that the plant called wolfsbane in Narnia is somewhat different than what we call aconite here in our world. Narnian wolfsbane is much more beautiful and much more lethal than ours. And though in our world, a victim of the poison might hope to be delivered by an antidote like atropine, there is no such remedy in Narnia. You might also like to know that wolfsbane was, on occasion, used as a symbol for the High King Peter, but that does not have much to do with the story at hand.)

Lucy did not usually carry her cordial with her, instead deigning to leave the precious gift in the treasure chamber at Cair Paravel. Peter had charged her to do this rather than keep it with her regularly, for he knew that if she always had it handy the cordial would be used up in a trice. Lucy's compassionate heart could not bear to see anyone in pain if she had the power to fix it. But even Lucy knew that in general, it was wisest to keep the cordial stored away in a safe place so that there would always be some left in the case of a great need.

This was, undoubtedly, a very great need. Immediately, Lucy galloped away towards the sea on the swiftest horse present. If she could get her cordial and give it to her brother in time, then there would be a happy ending without a doubt. But—_in time_—therein lay the rub. Cair Paravel was several hours journey away, and no one was sure that Edmund would be able to last that long with the foul poison coursing rapidly through his veins.

But in the meantime, the only option was to watch, hope, and pray as their beloved king fought a losing battle against approaching death.

_The sweetest thing in all my life has been the longing — to reach the Mountain, to find the place where all the beauty came from — my country, the place where I ought to have been born.__ Do you think it all meant nothing, all the longing? The longing for home? For indeed it now feels not like going, but like going back._

"Peter." The voice was fainter than usual, but it was still his brother's voice—_his brother's voice_—strong and youthful and more familiar to Peter than his own. If Peter didn't know better, he would have expected his brother to be standing next to him, smirking good-naturedly, rather than lying in what was very likely his deathbed. Peter turned to look at Edmund and forced himself to smile gently, though his heart was clenching painfully at the sight of his dying brother and he wanted nothing more than to run out the door, away from this nightmare. He would have liked to join Susan, who was quickly collecting flowers outside to brighten the dark cabin at Edmund's request. But he was also loathe to leave his brother alone, and if he left now Edmund truly would be alone. No one else was in the cabin, as Susan had kindly shooed the crowd of villagers out so Ed could have some peace. The villagers meant well, but at this point there was really nothing more they could do and it was much nicer for Edmund to just be with his siblings. And now it was just him and Peter.

"Yes, Ed?" Peter meant to sound cheerful, but it wasn't working particularly well. He knew his brother could probably see right through his act, but if Edmund noticed the tenseness of Peter's shoulders or the obvious struggle he was having to keep from pacing, he considerately pretended not to notice. Instead, Edmund went on to speak.

"Peter, I just realized something. I can't believe I never thought of it before, but…"

"Yes?"

"You know, none of us are getting out of here alive."

Peter tried to control his voice, but to no avail, and his words came out rather more sharply than he intended: "Don't be silly, Ed. We're not at war. What are you talking about? We're not going to die. I'm not going to die…you're not going to die. Nobody's going to die." His voice was getting a little panicky now, so Peter decided to shut up before he lost control entirely. But then another thought came to him, and it rushed out of his mouth before he could stop himself: "Ed… you don't _want_ to die, do you? Because, because… I don't think I would be able to take it. I really don't."

"No. No, nothing like that. Listen!" Edmund shook his head with a strange mixture of surprising vehemence and aweariness that frightened Peter immensely. "I mean… Take this morning for example. I was looking around, and the flowers were so beautiful and the sky so blue and the weather was just perfect, sunny with a cool breeze, and I felt that it could not be any more beautiful. And I thought, you know, I'll bet Aslan's country is a little like this. Everything perfect and happy and beautiful, more beautiful than you can dream of. And, you know, I started wishing. I wasn't trying to wish but I couldn't 

help it… You know, I just wished for Aslan's country. I wished so hard it almost hurt. But it was a good pain, not a bad one, you know?" Edmund hadn't said "you know" so much since he was seven. Peter wanted to cry, but instead he nodded, though he wasn't quite sure that he knew at all what Edmund meant. It was too hard to think about at present.

Edmund continued, his voice a little stronger than before, though he was still rambling. "But it never fully occurred to me, never till now, that the only way to get to Aslan's Country is to die. I mean, I suppose Aslan could do things differently, if He wanted to, and maybe He does on occasion, though I haven't really heard much about it. But, for the most part, the only way to go There is to die." Edmund paused for a moment, and Peter wondered if he was supposed to say something. But then Peter realized that Edmund wasn't done talking; he was just thinking a bit before he continued. He could tell by the look on his brother's face that he was planning to say something very important, and that he wanted to get it worked out in his mind before he tried to put it into words. Peter was almost startled by how sharp and aware Edmund was, despite the numbing poison. And even though Edmund was rambling unusually, Peter could tell that he truly meant everything what he was saying.

He didn't have to wait too long for Edmund to speak. "The only way to go There is to die," Edmund repeated. "But, you know, it's really not so bad, since we're all going to die anyway. You know? Everyone is dying. Everyone. Even the baby born yesterday. Even you and me, you know? We're all dying, though we prefer to call it getting older. And people don't like to think about it. Everyone wants to go to Aslan's Country, of course, but no one wants to die. But, you know… I think it's okay. It's really okay. None of us are getting out of here alive, but that's fine because it's just the way you have to go to get to Aslan's Country. I may be dying, but there's nothing wrong with me. It's part of the process, I think, to get to Aslan's Country. And I think it's fine; I think it's worth it. I know it's worth it. There's nothing wrong… " Edmund's head sank back again into his pillow. He was clearly exhausted, and Peter felt guilty for letting him wear himself out. Edmund was usually quiet and did not give such speeches often, but then Peter supposed that his brother must want to hurry up and say whatever there was to be said before it was too late.

Edmund turned his face towards Peter again to look him in the eye. "Do you know what I mean, Peter?"

Peter never got the chance to tell him whether or not he knew, because just then Susan burst through the door, her arms full of flowers and her eyes overflowing with a strange mixture of joy, concern, and relief. The reason for this was immediately seen as the Valiant Queen ran past Susan, already uncorking the small diamond bottle even before she reached her brother's bed. Somehow, by Aslan's help, Lucy had managed to bring the remedy back in time (but how exactly that occurred is another story entirely). There was no exchange of words; Lucy simply lifted her brother's head to help him drink the cordial, and Edmund took it gratefully. Finally Edmund rested his head back on the pillow. His eyes were closed but one could instantly see that he was feeling much better, and the color was already returning to his face. Then he opened his eyes and smiled up at his sister. "Thank you, Lu." Lucy beamed back at him, visibly overwhelmed with love for her brother and gratitude towards Aslan for enabling her to save him. Susan sagged against Peter, letting the flowers drop from her arms as relief drained her utterly of any 

remaining strength she had after this long, trying day. And all Peter could do was say, _Thank you, Aslan, thank you, thank you, thank you…_

In the flood of relief that washed over him during that moment, Peter entirely forgot what Edmund had been trying to tell him. He didn't remember it again until many years later when he found himself standing in the place he knew was home, the place he knew he belonged, the place where he would be forever with the One he loved, the One who was Love Himself. And as he stood there and thought about what had happened, he remembered what Edmund had told him on that perfect, painful spring day so many years ago, and he knew that Edmund was right: it was worth it.

_And there's nothing wrong with you. And nothing left to do but believe something bigger. And there's nothing wrong with love. I know it's just enough to believe._


End file.
